


It's No Good, But I Feel Alright

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol, BFFs, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Dynamics, Gen, Slurs, pre-fame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:23:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're three weeks into their guitarist search with no leads; the shithole band space they've rented out doesn't have a shower (and of course they fucking live there, because there's only enough money for either a place to play or a place to sleep, not both); the dives they've been scoping out in case they can find some unhappy guitarist in a shitty band are grimy and far-flung from their hopeful illusions of grandeur; and most importantly, it's almost closing time.  That means the kitchen's closed, and they haven't eaten enough to soak up the massive amounts of liquor they've consumed.</p>
<p>(Despite all that, Nathan is happy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's No Good, But I Feel Alright

**Author's Note:**

> i have no bearing for this. it's just dumb drunk buddy fic about two guys who are best friends after only knowing each other a month, and they're okay with admitting it when they're drunk because that's when you admit to personal, emotional crap, right????

            Everything is shit. They're three weeks into their guitarist search with no leads; the shithole band space they've rented out doesn't have a shower (and of course they fucking live there, because there's only enough money for either a place to play or a place to sleep, not both); the dives they've been scoping out in case they can find some unhappy guitarist in a shitty band are grimy and far-flung from their hopeful illusions of grandeur; and most importantly, it's almost closing time. That means the kitchen's closed, and they haven't eaten enough to soak up the massive amounts of liquor they've consumed.

            But, Nathan is drunk and happy despite himself, the band that's finishing up is okay (for post-grunge-indie-rock, what the fuck even does that _mean_ ), and Pickles is getting talked into eyebrow piercings by a hot chick with big red lips. It's good to see. He could use something to counteract the whole former-glam-rock thing he still somehow manages to use as a selling point when they're negotiating free drinks or jobs.

            She's touching Pickles' face and laughing and Pickles is beyond wasted - he'd gone to the bathroom earlier, and Nathan's definitely sure he'd gotten his hands on some coke or LSD, maybe DMT, because he'd come out weaving and running his mouth, drooling out song lyrics that would have been good in the mid-80's, but won't work so well for a death metal band.

            Except the one about eating people. That one, Nathan's kept in his head to write down later. It's the only thing he can remember from the last two hours. That and drinking. Drinking was happening a lot.

            Pickles leans in close to tell her something when the meathead by the slashed up pool table crowds in between him and the hot chick trying to get a client for her tattoo place. The music is just loud enough for Nathan to not pick up every word the guy says, but he does hear him when he raises his voice over Pickles, who's muttering, "Hey, now, what's goin' on with this here _guy_?"

            He makes a face like a rap-rock singer trying to look tough on their clean album cover. "You wanna put your hands on my girlfriend again, bro?"

            Aw, fuck everything. They're gonna get banned from this place, too, aren't they?

            Nathan claps one heavy hand on Pickles' shoulder to keep him from standing too quick and says, "Relax. They were just _talking_."

            "Stay the fuck out of it, Tonto," the guy snarls, and the word reverberates around his skull like there's nothing else in there. It's the red flag in front of the bull. He grits his teeth and drops his hand off Pickles' shoulder, his nails biting into the meat of his palm as he clenches his fist. The chick is trying to talk her meathead-off-his-leash down, but whatever she's saying seems to just be gearing him up for a fight, his eyes somehow bulging and squinting at the same time as he eyeballs them. He looks so fucking pleased with his insult, like Nathan hasn't heard it plenty of times before, like he's the original artist of the "Make Fun of the Red Man" train, and Nathan is gonna enjoy popping his eyes out of their sockets.

            "You," Pickles slurs, sliding off the stool, staggering forward before stepping back. He jabs a finger at the douchebag of the night. " _You_ wanna, fuckin' say that shit again? T'my, _my face?_ "

            Nathan straightens up and proceeds to loom. He's pretty sure it's one of his more intimidating ones.

            "What is it, you too much of a pussy to say something, featherhead?"

            Pickles socks the guy so hard in the jaw that there's a definite _crack_ , and he staggers backwards. The chick steps way the fuck out of the line of fire and shouts, "John, _knock it off_!"

            "Fuck you!"

            He comes in swinging, but Pickles fights fucking dirty and Nathan is a goddamn steamroller; Pickles kicks him square in the balls and Nathan goes ahead and throws himself onto "John," or whatever, arm like a piston as he punches the guy in the face until he's an unrecognizable mass of blood and bruises. His squinty-bulgy eyes are rolled back and he's got this hiccuping wheeze to his breathing - probably because his nose is totally trashed and he's lost enough teeth to choke him on blood.

            Nathan presses his face up close, and when he sees the pupils of John's eyes roll and meet with his, he grits his teeth and snarls, " _My name isn't Tonto._ "

            Someone is shouting about the police, the band isn't playing anymore, and Pickles is yanking on his arm, saying, "C'mon, dude, time t'go!"

            They aren't _chased_ out of the bar, which is a step up from the time they wound up starting a fight with some bikers at a dive near the boardwalk, but shouting follows them as they stagger-run the fuck out of Dodge. Pickles is crowing triumphantly about how it was a one-two knock out - "Fucker din' even, fuckin', yanno, fist our faces!" - and they only stop running when he slams into a lightpole at full wobbly tilt.

            Nathan rumbles with laughter while Pickles swears and threatens the offending piece of municipal property, hunched over with one hand on his knee and one on his nose. "Aw, _fuck me_ , dude, what the - fuckin', like, _get outta the way_ , next time, yanno?"

            "Uhhh... oh... _shit_. We're completely fucking... kicked out, now," Nathan realizes aloud.

            "Fuck them, that music was fuckin' - _shit,_ I tell ya, dude, the more, fuckin' uh, dashes ya gotta put in there, _fuck_! Hoity-toity hipster _bullshit_."

            Pickles wobbles and tilts until he's back beside Nathan, still glowering at the pole as he stands there, listing back and forth. "Dude, you got anythin' on ya I could smoke? 'Cos I could fuckin' smoke right now."

            Nathan doesn't, unfortunately; he wishes he was on Pickles' level right now, but they smoked the last of their weed six hours ago and he hasn't been able to get his hands on any mushrooms. "I wish," he grunts, and then he tilts his chin in the direction of the twenty-four-hour liquor store. "Got enough for a sixpack," he offers.

            "Yeah, that'll, huh. That'll have t'do."

            Pickles slaps his back and starts in the right direction; Nathan lurches just behind before realizing that watching Pickles swerve is just making him dizzy, and he ends up matching pace, letting Pickles list into him and away again. "Do you... remember the song you were singing?" he asks.

            "Huh? What - naw, I mean. What? Was I singin' again?"

            "In your gay-ass falsetto."

            "It ain't fuckin' _falsetto_ , okay? It's just - it's _not_."

            "Whatever. Sing that... thing about, uh... It was definitely about killing people. Laying eggs and shit. It was dark."

            "Aw, yea, it's basically one'a the songs I wrote fer, yanno, back in the day. Changed the lyrics up some. Heh. Not much'a them, though, lemme tell you."

            "Whatever, just, sing it again."

            "Better give me writing credits," Pickles huffs, weaving to the curb and ungracefully trying to tightrope along it. He sings a couple lines and they're pretty fucking brutal. He gets up to the fly part, then starts explaining something about his guitarist or whatever having a crazy groupie, and then he starts talking about the lifespan of a fruit fly and goes, "Okay, now, the fuckin' chorus is like - listen t'me, dude, it's _im-por-tent_ , yanno, just 'cos you don't like chori don't mean they aren't important, see, _instructurally_..."

            "Oh my fucking god, Pickles, alright, I'm listening!"

            "Don't yell at me, I fuckin' protected yer honor an' shit! I was fuckin' _good_ to ya, man, don't be a dick."

            "Just _sing_ , already. Shit."

            He starts rhythmically chanting the same "na-na-na-na" sound a couple times, and it's dumb as hell, but when Pickles pauses and then waves for him to join in the second time around, he just does it, because he's drunk and it's better than the shit they were listening to just a little while ago.

            "Y-eah, _man_ , Nate, I know yer gonna be like, the singer an' shit, you got the voice, but I better get t'back you up, 'cos - ummm... whoa, oh right, we sound pretty good t'gether!"

            "No we don't," Nathan replies.

            "Shut up, here's the best part - _make a mess dripping crimson and bone, break your face with a stale ice cream cone_ -"

            "Metal."

            "- _Make a mess dripping crimson and bone_ ," Pickles sings, jabbing Nathan harshly for some respect, " _Break your face with a stale ice cream cone, break your,_ uh, _face witta_ , ummm- uh, yanno. So on."  
            "You... forgot the lyrics," Nathan points out. "They're the same thing."

            "Fuck you, I'm high as balls right now."

            "Go over the first verse again," Nathan insists, and Pickles sighs and begrudgingly starts over. His enthusiasm shifts dramatically when Nathan haltingly sings along, and by the time they get to the liquor store, they're bellowing out the words "Stale ice cream cone!" on loop with various amounts of warbling and growling.

            The guy in the shop is too drunk to know it's after two, so he sells them a bottle of Popov - which is shit, and Pickles mutters vacantly about that fact as Nathan buys it, but it hits harder than beer - and they brownbag it on their trip back home.

            "Man. Nate, I'm tellin' ya, I cannot fuckin' _wait_ fer us to swing out on top. I'm gonna buy you _so_ much, fuckin'.... fuckin'.... what's that one?"

            Pickles snaps his fingers until Nathan takes a swig, makes a face and coughs, "Crystal Skull. It, uh. Comes in a bottle that... looks like a skull."

            " _Yeah_. That's what I'm gonna buy ya. I'm gonna buy ya a fuckin' _freezer_ filled with skulls." He throws out his arms. "Like, how fuckin' badass would it be if, uhhh, we... we took the _vodka_ , an' put it in a fuckin' _real_ skull? Like all'a it. One skull, then... another skull. With the vodka. Yanno what I mean?" He hooks an arm over Nathan's shoulders, forcing him to hunch over just a little more to compensate. His other hand gestures wide, as though he's the actual Lion King. "I'm gonna buy ya _that_. But a lotta 'em. Dude, _two_ freezers, even. Maybe _pharaohs'_ skulls. Ey?"

            Nathan should probably just point out he could buy it for himself, and he _totally will_ , but Pickles is grinning and his drunken sincerity is really pinging Nathan's drunken affection, and he feels momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer fucking _thought_ of it all.

            "That's really nice, Pickles," he lets himself say. "I would cherish the fucking _shit_ out of that gift."

            "Damn fuckin' right you would, else I would _quit_."

            Pickles goes quiet as they pass the half-mile mark, taking swigs of Popov when he realizes he isn't already drinking. Nathan's not sure if this is going to be a broody thing or not. They've been living together for only a month and a half, so he doesn't know all the ins and outs of Pickles' habits, but this is usually what he looks like when he gets broody.

            "Seriously, though," Pickles mumbles, sounding very serious indeed as he stops, pushing the bottle against Nathan's chest until he takes it. He stays there, hand hovering over Nathan's chest, and his eyes are glazed but he _sounds_ together. "Dude, I _am_ gonna buy you some fuckin' awesome shit like that. I've had more fuckin' fun hangin' out with you fer a, fer a _month_ , than I've had in, the, the last _two years_. Seriously. This is gonna work. You? Me?" He swings two fingers between them. "This is gonna fuckin' be _awesome_. From a, like, wizened fuckin' prophet, been-there-before point'a view. We're gonna get such a fuckin' _perfect_ band t'gether. Stars are gonna fuckin' _align_ fer us."

            "You're, uh." Being pretty emotional. Really fucking gay. Nathan has a lot of words for what's going on right now, but his brain is sloshing in vodka and Pickles looks as serious as the black death, and it's making Nathan's gut twist tightly with affection. He clasps a hand on Pickles' shoulder. "You're... yeah. Pretty fucking awesome, Pickles. And I know.... uh... that we haven't done - _done_ much, yet. But if you say it's going to work - well. Fuck.   I'm so fuckin' - fuuuck. Yeah. I fucking believe you. You're like.... like a... shit, a fucking...."

            "Prophet?"

            " _No_ , like a..."

            "Cool dude?"

            " _No_ \- well, _yeah_ , but. You're like, uhhhh... Man, you're like a fucking brother, or something." Except something less gay. Nathan's not sure what the right word is.

            He doesn't get the chance to try and figure it out, because Pickles is reeling out of his reach like he's been shot. For a shattering moment, Nathan thinks that might be the case, but it's the betrayal in Pickles' expression that clues him in.

            "Whoa, no, fuck you. _Fuck_ you, dude, no, don't call me your fuckin' _brother_. Who the fuck - why the fuck'd you wanna go an' say that shit t'me?"

            "Uh. What?"

            After all that shit, Nathan hardly thinks _brother_ is the line in the fucking sand. It's such an abrupt shift from earnest heart-to-heart to straight up anger that Nathan can only blink dumbly as it happens, right in front of his eyes, like magic.

            " _Fuck_ you, Nathan, _seriously_ , not fuckin' cool."

            Pickles doesn't even yank the Popov out of Nathan's hands before he starts stalking on towards their place; Nathan stands there holding the bag like an idiot until his feet catch on that Pickles isn't stopping to wait for him.

            "Whoa," he says, and then he gulps down half of what's left in the bottle and jogs to catch up with Pickles, grabbing him by the arm. "Wait, what-"

            "Don't _fucking touch me_ ," Pickles snarls, and Nathan's suddenly getting a good view of what people usually see right before Pickles decks them. There's no punching, this time, but the fire in Pickles' eyes is just _aching_ for more of a fight than this.

            Nathan holds up his hands. Pickles doesn't move, glaring up at him until he suddenly blinks and frowns, shoulders slumping slightly. It's not much of a change, but Nathan notices it.

            "I'm not yer brother," Pickles says, and each word sounds less angry and more frustrated than the last. "Look - just don't call me that."

            "What, is that, _too_ gay?"

            Pickles sighs at Nathan's honest confusion and shrugs. "Well, _yeah_ , since we're drunk it's cool, though, but _no_. I _have_ a brother," he says, "An' trust me, I don't - fuckin' Seth is just - I don't _want_ another brother. I want _less_ of 'em."

            "Oh." He doesn't know if he _gets it_ , gets it, but he gets it enough to understand what went fundamentally wrong. "Uh. Okay. You're my fucking best friend, then."

            "That's _way_ gayer'n any of the shit _I_ said," Pickles replies, and Nathan scowls at him until he smiles lopsidedly. "Okay, though. I'm cool with that."

            "No more brother shit," Nathan adds as they start walking again. "I'll, uh. Make a fucking rule. Band law."

            "Cool."

            They reach the practice space and jimmy the lock - they have a key, but it's somewhere between here and the boardwalk - and Nathan clutches the almost-empty bottle of Popov tight as they stagger through the dark to the storage room they've put a couple of mattresses in. Pickles says he's got money coming in from some overdue royalties soon, so hopefully they'll get the fuck out of this cramped space and into something better. Until then, they deal with their mattresses being shoved together and do a pretty good job of sharing the blankets.

            Nathan stands while Pickles flops onto one of the mattresses, his arms tangled up in his shirt as he tries to get it over his head. When he's finally free, Nathan holds the bottle out to him.

            "I'm gonna buy you a shit ton of umbrellas," he says, "The drink ones. The really classy ones. But here's the last of the, uhhh, vodka. For now."

            Pickles stares up at him and then grins, slow and wide, and takes the bottle from Nathan. He stares at it like it's gold, which is weird, and then says, "That's the nicest fuckin' thing anyone's ever said t'me," and gulps it down. Nathan almost-smiles back, proud to have solved his first interpersonal band argument so well.

            "Tomorrow," he says as he strips down to his boxers - he isn't sleeping in denim, no fucking way, he might not be famous yet but he's not an _animal_ \- and sits on the other mattress, "We've got those guys to look at."

            "Aw, shit, yer right." Pickles stretches until his back pops, and then he hauls one of the thicker blankets over his head. "They better fuckin' rock."

            "Yeah," Nathan agrees, settling for the basically-airplane-grade blanket himself and lying flat on his back, staring up at the gloomy ceiling. "They gotta keep up with us."

            "Good fuckin' luck t'them," Pickles yawns. His arm reaches out from under the covers and he pats Nathan's bicep with the tips of his fingers, scooting in until he can slap him properly. "Get some sleep, Nate. We got stars t'fuckin' align in the morning."

            "Right."

            Nathan doesn't fall asleep for another half-hour, but eventually Pickles' snoring manages to be enough white noise, and he feels pretty good when he finally closes his eyes. Pickles' hand stays on his arm, fingers twitching parts of a drum solo here and there, and it fills Nathan's dreams with music and lyrics about the skulls of kings and ancient prophecies. While the other pharaohs on gilded thrones are nebulous dream entities, Pickles is starkly clear, covered in gore and grinning like he was just offered the last of some cheap ass vodka. When he leans in to Nathan's ear, he whispers star secrets and affirmations of their power.

            It's a very good dream.


End file.
